


Loved in Spite

by Yuo



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: Character Study, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-07-12 07:29:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15990530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuo/pseuds/Yuo
Summary: This will be a multi-chapter piece/quasi-character study about Carol and a very damaging relationship in her past. Drama ensues when the woman is transferred, decades later, to Carol's prison.





	1. Under the Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked:
> 
> Could you write a prompt, where Reader and Carol had been a couple in school but the reader moved with a word and she gets transferred to MAX years later and meets present!Carol and Carol is still mad at Reader? 
> 
> A/N: I've rated this "mature" for now and did not include archive warnings because I'm not 100% sure where this is going. Adult content may be added later.

Carol glanced up disinterestedly from her cards as the parade of cookies shuffled past. Ten new inmates, all having arrived at once, transferred from various prisons. Some of the girls smiled sweetly at Carol, who, with a twisted expression, refused to acknowledge them.

Carol was no stranger to other inmates attempting to get close to her. Their intentions were always clear: most were simply seeking the comfort and safety that came with being involved with the big boss, and the supposed attraction they mimed only served to disgust her. A few were genuinely interested, however, Carol had no interest in playing prison mommy to a bunch of crazy, lovesick young women. The inmates her age seemed to intuit that she was indifferent to relationships, and left her alone.

And right they were - Carol had vowed that the relationships door was to remain closed forever. It was far too easy to trust, to let emotions cloud her judgement, to put herself in a position where another could take everything from her, ripping a piece of her soul away and disappearing forever with it.

Like  _she_ did.

Carol avoided thinking about her name. No, she was always  _she_ , the woman whose impact and damage was so great she required no name. Saying it brought back far too many painful memories, of whispers during the night, of secret notes passed in class, of writing long, longing letters in her loopy teenage scrawl, to be slipped between the slats of her locker so she could enjoy them later.

It was human nature, right? To avoid pain at all costs? Carol often laid awake in bed, trying to justify shutting off the loving, romantic part of herself. It was the natural response, yes, but was she only allowing her more power by forever changing herself? Being like this, cool, frigid, unfeeling for the rest of her natural life?  
  


It’s probably exactly what  _she_ wanted, thought Carol bitterly. The frenzied, passionate,  fire that once burned under her skin had long been extinguished. Gone was the warm, loving hearth that blazed under her tough exterior, only to be revealed to those she loved the most. No longer was there a soft, compassionate human center under her layers of rage, fortitude and drama. She had taken a great pride in growing these many suits of armor when she had first arrived in prison. But, as she reached the limit as to how far she could conceal her innermost workings from others, the layers had continued to develop.

No more were they simple means of security, of putting up a defensive front. They continued to build themselves, burrowing ever deeper, taking over and replacing her true self. Like a cancer, they fed on her, possessed her, gnawing away bit by bit, day by day, year by year, until Carol had no choice but to surrender, to allow her malignant persona to overwrite every thought, every word she spoke, every piece of her humanity.

There was no heart beating under the ice. There was only more, more isolation, more coldness, more apathy. It was if she had become the personification of the prison itself.

And she couldn’t muster up enough emotions to care.

Her eyes flicked back up to the group of cookies and she nearly flinched as her gaze fell on the last inmate in line.  _Was that….? No, impossible. I’m just seeing things. Maybe this is the day I finally go insane_. She squinted at the inmate, clad in orange, her ancient eyeglass prescription just poor and fuzzy enough to convince herself her eyes were playing tricks on her. All she could see was the back of her head of loose, soft brown curls. But then the woman turned to face Carol, and a horrible sinking feeling gripped her chest.

“Carol,” said the woman, her tone flat, her brown eyes neutral.  

With a trembling hand, Carol laid her cards down on the table. Hundreds of times she had rehearsed this exact situation, fantasizing about what she would say to  _her_ if only she could meet  _her_ one last time. Carol had imagined many scenarios, from unleashing her rage and anger and demanding to know why  _she_ had thrown her away like a broken toy, to making up and enjoying one last sweet, farewell kiss. Over thousands of long, sleepless nights, Carol had pictured holding  _her_ tightly, sobbing in  _her_ arms, beating  _her_ , making  _her_ suffer exactly as she had, making love to  _her_ , or simply walking away, denying  _her_ closure the same way  _she_ had done to Carol.

And yet, none of these things happened. Carol could only stare, her wide blue eyes held captive by the woman’s familiar gaze. She wet her lips. Took a deep inhale. And spoke the name for the first time in nearly four decades.

“Marilyn.”


	2. Grey Horizon

While at one time, the contrast between the two Denning sisters was a point of contention by peers, teachers, and parents alike, Carol now prided herself on being different than her sister. Their disparity had led them on very different paths in prison, and looking back on the past thirty years, she had a certain sense of satisfaction that she was the more auspicious of the pair. 

 

Carol was the leader of the more prosperous of the two blocks, that was certain. But C-Block’s considerable financial advantage was due to luck, not skill. She loved to gloat about their high-paying jobs, but under the surface she knew it wasn’t truly an accomplishment. 

 

No, her real achievement was her practiced, careful restraint around the drugs she brought in. Watching Barb struggle and spin out of control as addiction and withdrawal devastated her mind, while Carol sat comfortably wielding her unfaltering, stable authority almost made up for the years of torment the eldest Denning had inflicted on her. Almost. For Carol to take pity on her sister, as she had clearly suffered enough already, would mean holding some semblance of sympathy for Barb, and the thought of extending any kind of warm feeling towards her sister made her sick. 

 

But her avoidance of drugs couldn’t be because of her abundance of self-control and prudence, as Carol obviously had none. No, her choice was tied to something deeper.

 

There are many reasons one may create to justify using drugs, but only one holds true: the desire for a troubling feeling to cease. Vanquishing physical pain, grief, sadness, even self-consciousness at a party. Even using substances to “unwind” falls under the umbrella. 

 

Sure, Carol had experimented when she was younger. Sneaking a pill or two out of the stash, smoking a joint in the library hideout with Frieda. But as she grew colder, hardened, more stoic, her usage slowly dwindled until she was no longer interested in drugs at all. Carol had found her own way to cut out bothersome emotions. Whatever bits and pieces of sadness that remained could easily be channeled through her rage and power. 

 

Simply put: when one doesn’t feel, there is no desire to  _ not feel.  _

 

\-----

 

Marilyn had been escorted to her cell immediately after their encounter. Head spinning, Carol did her best to focus on the card game at hand, but found herself losing quickly. The inmates at the table looked concerned at her sudden absence of all bridge skills. Muttering something about a headache, she tossed her cards carelessly on the table and slunk off to her cell. 

 

Carol felt weak. It was if she were in shock, not unlike the same kind one experiences after a harrowing or violent car accident. Mouth dry, she sat carefully on the edge of her bed, her knees pressed tightly together and her hands folded demurely in her lap, a far contrast from her usual relaxed, dominant, almost masculine body language. 

 

A sharp knock resonated on the door frame. “Hey, Carol,” drawled Badison in her grating accent, and Carol felt a wave of overwhelming hatred for the blonde inmate’s face. “Are you okay? You look like… shaken up or something.” 

 

“What do you want?” snapped Carol. 

 

“What’s up with the new cookie? Saw you two havin’ some kinda face-off in there.” 

 

“It’s none of your fucking business.”

 

“She piss you off? I can mess with her stuff, maybe make her have a little “accident”...” Badison wiggled her eyebrows, excited by the prospect of having a new subject to bully. 

 

“Don’t you touch her,” growled Carol. Her words astounded her as they tumbled out. This was the woman who had brought decades of anguish on her, and her first instinct was to protect her? 

 

“What, you sweet on her?”

 

“Get the fuck out,” snarled Carol with slits for eyes. Badison held her hands up in mock surrender and edged out of the cell. 

 

She took several deep, gasping breaths, attempting to settle herself. As if in a trance, she slowly laid down on the bed. And then, all at once, a wave of feeling like no other crashed over her. Hot tears slid down her face as she covered her head with the pillow and sobbed. The grief, the despair, and the trepidation of having  _ her,  _ no,  _ Marilyn, _ here crushed and squeezed her tightly, like an anaconda destroying its prey. 

 

Carol floated in that colorless, hopeless place for quite some time. Time and other external factors had no bearing - all that mattered was the tsunami of emotions that forced her ever deeper, trapping her, drowning her. 

 

At last she rose from her bed and examined her face in the scratched, tiny plastic mirror above the sink. As she splashed water on her puffy, swollen eyes, she knew exactly what she had to do. Poking her head out her cell door, she flagged down Badison, jerking her head to motion her over. 

 

Badison hustled over, and Carol couldn’t help but make the connection between her and an eager puppy dog who had just been summoned by its owner. “I need something,” said Carol. “Two things.”

“Yeah?” said Badison, leaning against the doorframe. 

 

“I need pills. Oxy. Or something,” said Carol, almost ashamedly. Knowing better than to ask why, Badison nodded. “And set up a meeting with Mari- the new cookie,” she corrected herself. Badison raised her eyebrows, sensing the drama she so loved to participate in looming on the horizon.

 

“In the salon. Tomorrow morning. Just me and her, alone. Understood?” ordered Carol.

 

“Understood.”


	3. Sanguine

The orange light filtering through the inadequately sized window illuminated Carol’s form as she paced back and forth in her cell. While the rest of the prison was quietly asleep, her mind and body raced. She deeply regretted her impulsive decision to meet Marilyn for one single very concerning reason: Carol had no idea what to say.

 

Badison had returned minutes later to slip Carol the tiny bag full of white powder. As she had pocketed it, a wave of shame tumbled over her. She had stuffed it under her mattress, promising herself she wouldn’t touch it unless she absolutely had to. 

 

Carol ran through her usual scenarios she pictured when imagining a visit with Marilyn, but all of them fell flat. Hurting her seemed to be an unsatisfactory solution: she had so much to express that her fists couldn’t. Telling Marilyn how she truly felt, admitting that an abruptly ended high school fling had been tormenting her for decades, would be nothing short of humiliating. 

 

With no possible answers, she threw herself down on her bed despondently. Her thoughts turned to the baggie stashed under the mattress - her ticket to a world where her looping, frantic thoughts had no hold. Carol’s original shame in sinking down to Barb’s level, as she perceived it, was fading as temptation trickled in. She reached under the mattress and pulled it out, clasping it tightly as she made her decision: she would figure it out in the morning. Perhaps an overly-confident statement, but Carol was desperate to escape her current state of mind. 

 

Carol grabbed her ID badge from the shelf and sat cross-legged on the mattress, focusing on the task at hand. She scooped up what she hoped was a small dose with the corner of the badge and, with a careful hand, brought it to her nose. She sniffed several times, trying to grow accustomed to the unfamiliar sensation of the substance trickling down the back of her throat. 

 

The euphoria swept over her quickly, like clouds parting to make way for brilliant, hopeful rays of sunlight. She felt oddly sanguine about the approaching meeting, and told herself that the right words would come to her when the time came. With such blindly optimistic reassurance in place, she felt she could finally relax, stretching her legs out and unwrapping a lollipop. Soon the sedative effects of the drug began to kick in as the elation wore off. Feeling comforted, she allowed herself to slip into a deep sleep.

 

\-----

 

Carol awoke early to the sound of her cell door being unlocked. Still painfully groggy from her lack of sleep, she walked stiffly into the common area and grabbed a breakfast tray. Now that she was sober, she was feeling much less confident about the meeting. 

 

She didn’t need drugs, she needed  _ advice.  _ Like a friend, or a magazine column she could write in to. Of course, neither of these were easily accessible to her. As she bit down slowly on an apple slice, she looked around the common area. None of these women could be considered her friends, or anything close to the meaning of the word. Her lackeys were, well, lackeys, only good for doing her dirty work and laying on the flattery when they wanted to gain her favor. Badison crossed her mind for the briefest of seconds before she had to resist the urge to cackle out loud at what a laughable idea that was. 

 

Carol was beginning to discover a very disconcerting flaw in her persona and schema. She had spent years working to isolate herself at the top so that she would be untouchable. And as she glanced around at the various inmates in the common area, she realized she had done  _ too good  _ of a job. Aside from the few that would perform favors or obey her orders out of pure fear, she was well and truly alone. 

 

And that was when she realized the most disconcerting thing of all: she cared that she was alone. Loneliness panged very deeply inside. But before she could ponder this newfound awareness, she saw Badison walking with an inmate clad in orange. The blonde gave Carol a knowing nod as she exited C-Block, Marilyn following just behind her. Hellman waited several seconds, then followed the two women, also giving a glance in Carol’s direction.

 

The fluorescent lighting hummed overhead, a painful strain on Carol’s tired eyes. She rounded the corner by the salon to find Hellman standing guard by the bars of the salon and Badison smirking at the uncomfortable Marilyn, the Bostonian clearly relishing the small amount of power the woman’s uncertainty granted her. 

 

“Twenty minutes, Denning,” said Hellman, locking the bars behind Carol. She waited for him and Badison to disappear from view before turning to face Marilyn.

 

There was a new, different atmosphere in the salon. The usual fear and tension Carol loved to inflict on all the poor women she brought into the room to threaten, set straight, or otherwise scare, was noticeably missing. As Carol’s eyes roamed over her face, she realized why - Marilyn wasn’t frightened in the slightest. She leaned against the counter with a quiet assuredness and curiosity; she was clearly curious about the nature of their meeting, but unconcerned about any potential danger. 

 

Carol said nothing, thinking it was best to let Marilyn initiate the conversation, and took a seat in one of the swiveling chairs. “Uh, it’s your meeting,” supplied Marilyn. “Aren’t you going to talk?” The kingpin didn’t reply, merely tilting her head as if she were investigating Marilyn very closely. 

 

Marilyn scoffed.  _ I see how it is. _ “So, I take it you’re the big boss.”

 

“Mmm,” hummed Carol. 

“I never expected that. I thought you’d grow up to be an art teacher or something, not the head prison honcho.” Marilyn raised her eyebrows expectantly, but no response came. “I followed your story on the news when it happened, you know.”

 

“You know what I never expected?” said Carol, leaning forward. Marilyn gave a small sigh, knowing full well what would come next. “That you would take everything and disappear forever without so much as a goodbye.” 

 

“Well it wasn’t forever, was it? I’m here with you now,” said Marilyn hopefully. 

 

“Jesus, fuck. You came here on purpose?” demanded Carol. 

 

“I was already locked up. But yes, I may have had my lawyer put in a request for a transfer.”

 

Carol gave a haunting, sharp laugh, her face contorting into a rageful grimace. “You’ve got some fucking nerve,” she growled. “You think I want anything to do with you ever again? Do you know the damage you caused? How much I cried over you?” Carol trailed off before she could reveal anymore embarrassing secrets. 

 

“Carol, I-” started Marilyn. 

 

“You what? You’re going to stand there and try to make it up to me? You can’t!” Her closest and most constant friend, her anger, was now awakened, coursing through her veins, a drug that far exceeded what any baggie of powder could provide. 

 

“You don’t know all the facts!”

 

“What!? What don’t I know!?” shouted Carol. 

 

“Carol, I never, ever wanted to leave you. It wasn’t my fault,” said Marilyn, raw emotion making her voice crack.

 

“What?”

 

“I had no choice.”


	4. Breaking Sad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains brief child abuse mention.

Carol’s ears were ringing. It was if all the sound had been sucked from the world. For decades, the reason why Marilyn left had been a mystery to her. Most of her imagined scenarios included a large self-pity angle, and she would drive herself into a rage after creating causes such as “she didn’t want to hang out with the loser sister” and “she was playing a joke on me the whole time”. What Marilyn had just told her was almost beyond comprehension. **  
**

“Carol? Carol.” called Marilyn. Carol forced herself to focus. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” shrugged Carol. “Go on,” she prompted.

“It was my dad,” said Marilyn, looking at the ground, her eyes shimmering with tears. “He found out that we were together.” Carol leaned forward, astounded. “I came home from school one day,” she continued, sniffling slightly, “And one of those notes you used to write me,” she smiled at the fond memories of finding the letters Carol had slipped into her locker and reading them behind the school bleachers. “It fell out of my backpack and he picked it up.” Marilyn took a deep, shaky breath. “He beat the holy hell out of me when he saw it was signed by a girl. Then the next day, he told me we were moving. I wasn’t allowed to contact you again.”

“But you were a teenager then.” said Carol. “Why didn’t you call me after you grew up and moved out?”

Marilyn bit her lip, looking uncomfortable. “Oh, Carol,” she said softly, “I don’t know if I even wanted to.”

Carol scoffed, very much in her full juvenile form. “What is that supposed to mean!?” she snapped.

“Carol, what you did, your, er, crime,” stammered the flustered Marilyn, “was very serious.” The woman rolled her eyes, her lack of empathy apparent. “She was your little sister,” said Marilyn tearfully.

“Maybe I did it because I didn’t want to move away and fuck over everyone like you did,” retorted Carol, folding her arms.

Marilyn looked shocked. “Did you listen to anything I just said?”

Carol rose from her chair and snatched a pair of scissors from the counter. “Let me tell you how things work here.” She advanced on Marilyn, pinning her against the wall and pressing the tip of the sharp steel against her throat. The woman swallowed nervously, and Carol took a deep satisfaction in the fear registering in her wide brown eyes. “You don’t talk to me that way. I’m in charge here. Whatever I say, these bitches do. And that includes you.”

Tears streaked down Marilyn’s face. She shook her head. “What happened to you, Carol?”

“Time’s up!” barked Hellman, rounding the corner. Carol jumped away from Marilyn, discreetly hiding the scissors behind her back. He unlocked the bars. “Come on, ladies.” Tossing the scissors back on the tray as she passed, Carol exited the salon first with Marilyn in tow.

She made a beeline to her cell, ignoring Badison’s “how was it?”. Marilyn’s last words rang in her head. What happened to you? It had struck a nerve. Carol was aware of how her not-so-tragic backstory didn’t seem to provide a reason or an excuse for her vast amounts of anger and various other emotional aberrations. But the knowledge that others were aware of it too was almost too much to bear.

Her breathing rose in frequency and panic until she had enough. Carol grabbed the shampoo bottle off the shelf and downed it all in several gulping swallows. She ground her teeth, frantic with anger.

Something had awakened in her, unfrozen after decades of being stuck. And it was all because of Marilyn. In the last twenty four hours, Carol had experienced more emotion, more feeling, than she had in the last five years. For decades she had successfully hidden her brokenness, her stunted emotional growth. And then she had walked into the prison and ruined everything. Marilyn was stunned at the monster Carol had become, that was plainly clear. And Carol hated her for it. She paced around her cell, her thoughts coming too quickly and disjointed to make sense of anything.

The effects of the alcohol began to make her feel fuzzy, unfocused. Her despair reaching a fever pitch, she stormed out of her cell and strode up the stairs. “Get out,” she barked at Marilyn’s cellmate, who scrambled to get out of her way.

“Carol,” said Marilyn, the sadness still evident in her voice.

“Why do you always fucking do that? Why do you always say my name, like it’s

supposed to mean something?” demanded Carol.

“Have you been drinking?”

“This is what I have to do now,” said Carol, her speaking fast and manic. “This is what you make me do.” Marilyn took a step back from the distressed woman. “You make me feel. You make me feel. You make me feel and I don’t know what to do!” She pressed closer to Marilyn, desperation contorting her face, panting for air.

“Breathe, Carol. Deep breaths,” said Marilyn helpfully.

“No!” shouted Carol. “Don’t pity me! You can’t pity me!”

“Why would I pity you?” asked Marilyn, tilting her head.

“Stop it! Just stop it!” she yelled.

“What do you want, Carol? What, you want to beat me up? Stab me with your scissors?”

“Stop saying my name!”

“What do you want from me?” repeated Marilyn.

“I need… I need…” gasped Carol. She realized tears were trickling down her face. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she wept. “I need you to help me!” Carol grasped at the fabric of Marilyn’s uniform. “Help me!”

“Carol, this,” she gestured at the sobbing woman, “I can’t fix this. I can’t fix you. I don’t know what you’ve been doing the last thirty years and I don’t know how to help you.”

“You-you said you loved me,” cried Carol.

“I loved Carol Denning. The girl who would pass me little notes and drawings. The girl who would slip candy into my pocket when I wasn’t looking.” Marilyn shook her head. “I don’t recognize you. I don’t know who you are anymore.”

It was decidedly the wrong thing to tell the woman deep in crisis. “No, no no no,” panted Carol, still clinging on to Marilyn’s shirt. “No, don’t say that to me. You can’t say that to me.”

“What the fuck, Denning?” the COs arrived at the door.

“Fuck!” shouted Carol. “I’m sorry, Marilyn,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry!”

The COs whispered amongst themselves. “Take her to Ad-Seg. Let her calm down.”

“She’s never done this before,” said the other.

“Let’s go,” barked the first, clapping a large hand onto Carol’s shoulder. She shrugged it off violently, twisting away from his reach. He reached for her wrists, grabbing them tightly and slapping the handcuffs on.   
  


“Let me go!” screamed Carol, still fighting against the COs as they marched her out of the cell.

“Do you want to go to Psych, inmate?” She quieted down and allowed them to lead her, avoiding seeing the expression on Marilyn’s face. The common area sat in stunned silence as they walked through, Carol keeping her head down as if that would make the astonished stares of her fellow inmates cease.

As the bright red cell door was locked behind her, Carol lunged for the toilet and emptied the contents of her stomach, the large quantity of hooch all at once too much for her. As she knelt shakily on the concrete floor, the ramifications of her punishment began to hit her. No booze. No oxy.

Just her and her thoughts for days.


	5. A Dealer in Hope

Leadership is a fickle thing.

The concept of select humans, of a species equal in theory, rising to a higher level than the others to both guide and control, is a peculiar one. Some are above the herd in mind or body; a genetic one-way ticket to the table of the elite, the exceptional, the superior. Others are groomed, both by others and the seemingly patternless chaos nature inflicts upon its subjects, to yearn for the top rank in order to fulfill a pressing lack or hunger.

 

Carol fell into the latter category, remarkable only by fateful circumstance. Leadership was never a goal, rather, it was the byproduct of Carol’s vigorous attention-seeking. She had sought praise and validation from her fellow inmates by any means necessary, and it wasn’t long before she realized fear could consistently produce such flatteries, the kind she had always glared at in envy as they were showered upon her older sister. As time trudged on, Carol found herself having to inflict terror on her cellmates less and less; the gifts, both intangible and physical, were bestowed without prompting. Soon, she discovered what it meant: she was respected.

Being the leader, the top dog, instead of the drab, misfit wallflower was a very new role indeed and it took Carol years to accept it as the result of her actions. Even as she gained in rank and popularity, she fell into her old, accustomed ways, lurking in the background and letting others (namely Frieda) manage her business. She would step in and be the face of wrath when she had to, but she found it ultimately more pleasurable to busy herself with trivialities (magazines, cigarettes, candy).

But as the cigarettes dried up and the magazines failed to thrill her like they once did, Carol found herself lost and in pursuit of a fresh avenue of entertainment. Neither her nor Barb dared reopen their drug businesses yet in light of their pressing thirty year sentences and the extra attention from the guards it garnered. She mentioned this in passing to her cellmate one afternoon, who offered to teach her bridge. Instead of turning her nose up as she once had at a game she considered to be for grannies and aunties, she had agreed, and her bridge lessons begun.

Bridge, as it turned out, had many unseen advantages. Her dynamics with the inmates around her reached a new level - with her present in the common area all day, every day, they behaved even more cautiously as they knew Carol could be watching at any time. It was a significant benefit to be able to keep tabs on the prison’s comings and goings. As Barb resumed dealing and Carol fought to compete, her regime grew even more totalitarian, extending her authority beyond the swarms of junkies who flocked to her in order to secure their next high until everyone in C-Block answered to one and only captain.

A new sense of satisfaction had gripped her after she had accomplished the highest level of rule. No longer did she run from the spotlight. Carol embraced her leadership with pride and determination.

Which is why her recent breakdown continued to devastate her.

After twenty four hours in solitary confinement, the waves of emotion that had plagued her had ceased. Carol was governed by only two masters: the horrific shame she felt at her loss of control, and the burning desire to reclaim it. To regain her infallible leadership would require putting on an even heavier stone mask, and she was more than ready to do so. Marilyn would cease to concern her, Carol had decided.

By the end of the fourth day, she was pacing around her cell vigorously. The wounded animal that had been locked in the red-painted cage had healed. She was fervent. She was rabid.

And as soon as that heavy steel door was unlocked, everyone would know it.

——

Badison loved it when Carol was away.

There was no dominant figure to reign her back in when she pushed too hard, no mommy to reprimand her when she mocked Beth the Baby Killer with her most patronizing little girl voice.

The occasion came rarely enough, perhaps once or twice a year if she was lucky. But her sparse episodes of exerting total control of the block weren’t merely a taste of power provided to an obedient underling, rather, they were free samples of the glory that would one day be awarded to her.  

Everyone in prison had an expiration date of either death or parole, and it was with a note of happiness that she remembered Carol’s would arrive much, much sooner than hers would. She didn’t even have to wait for her to wither away. Give it a few years, she could probably just smother the old bitch with a pillow.

Badison liked that idea.

She followed Carol obediently with one image in mind: the day when what was Carol’s would become hers. The power, the money, the authority: she would have it all. Except for the bridge games. She’d do away with those.

Too many fuckin’ rules.

——-

The (badly-dyed) blonde sauntered casually out of her cell, working out her agenda for the day in her head. First item on the list: find out exactly why Carol had been sent to Ad-Seg. Badison had been painfully absent from the place of the drama (extra long, hot, midday shower) and she was itching to piece together the events.

She begun conducting her series of interviews with the usual group of lackeys, but none of them had witnessed the scene, knowing Carol’s hatred of onlookers when she was conducting “business”. Piper had been of some use, telling her that she had heard shouting and then Carol had been escorted off, crying.

Carol Denning, crying? She’d believe it when she saw it.

Most of the inmates had been out wrapping cheese, and the rest were enjoying rec time during the incident. Much to Badison’s chagrin, this only left the baby killer. But perhaps there was a silver lining: she could use her baby voice all she pleased.

Beth cringed reflexively as Badison approached, the natural result of months of bullying at the Bostonian’s hands. “Hey, hey, relax,” she drawled. “I just wanna ask you a few questions.”

Beth looked uncomfortable. “Like what?”

“Like… what went down with Carol.”

“Oh,” said Beth. “Well I saw Carol go into someone’s cell. She looked pretty angry. Then I heard her shouting, and then the COs walked her off. She was like… actually crying.” Badison’s brow furrowed at the news.

“Whose cell?”

“The new cookie.”

Badison rolled her eyes. “Which new cookie, genius?”

“The older one. Brunette. I think I heard someone call her Marilyn? But anyways-” Beth looked up and realized Badison had already walked away.

Hellman intercepted her on her way to Marilyn’s cell. “Why haven’t you picked the stuff up yet?” he hissed.

“I’ve been busy,” she shrugged. “Also, Alvarez keeps following me whenever I leave the block.”

“What do you expect me to do, tell him to stop doing his job?”

“You really want me to get busted with shit you brought in?”

“Jesus, just send somebody else to pick it up!” said Hellman, a touch too loudly.

“Yell it, why don’t you?” mocked Badison.

“Fucking do it, will you? I don’t like it just sitting there. My ass is on the line here too,” he growled, then turned away without any parting words.

——–

Badison poked her head into Marilyn’s cell. The woman was curled up peacefully with a book. These people, thought Badison. How can anyone just sit there and read?

“Can I help you?” asked Marilyn politely.

“Heard ya got Carol pretty shaken up the other day,” said Badison.

“Well, then you heard wrong,” she replied flippantly.

“‘Scuse me?”

“Carol came into my cell drunk and upset. She screamed and cried at me, and then got taken away. Look, I don’t know if this is a personal matter between you and her, but whatever it is, I’m not getting involved,” said Marilyn resolutely.

“Nah. See, it sounds to me like this is a personal matter between her and you.”

“I see. You’re one of Carol’s followers, aren’t you?”

Badison scoffed. “Lady, I’m no fucking follower. I’m in charge around here.”

“Yeah. It really seems there’s a lot of you ‘in charge’, doesn’t it? Maybe you need to work that out.”

The blonde tilted her head. “When’s ya sentence up?”

“Five months. Did the other four years in Oklahoma.”

“Hmm. You’re so close, you probably don’t wanna make any enemies, right?”

“True,” acknowledged Marilyn.

“Good. Then you’re gonna do me a favor,” sneered Badison.

“Is there money in it?” she asked. Badison looked taken aback at this.

“Why do you need money?”

Marilyn opened her book and pulled out a photo tucked between the pages. “I have a daughter,” she said, displaying the picture of a teenage girl. “She needs to go to college. And there’s no one else to provide.”

“That’s a touching story,” said the blonde. “I’ll make you a deal. First time is free. If you do good, then maybe there’ll be something in it for you.”

Marilyn considered the offer. “What do I have to do?”

“There’s a utility closet just outside of the block. The door’s unlocked, all you have to do is look under the loose tile, get the stash, and bring it to me. If it goes well, I’ll give you a cut.”

“How much?”

“Ten percent. That’s two-hundy, weekly.”

Marilyn considered the offer for a moment. “And if I refuse?”  
  


“Well,” Badison leaned in, “Maybe you wake up with a shiv under your mattress. And there’s a cell toss that morning. Or maybe-”

“Yes, I get the idea,” snapped Marilyn. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

——

Cheers erupted around the common area, and Badison emerged from her cell to see what the commotion was about. Her heart sank. Carol’s back. Wasn’t even forty eight hours, thought Badison disappointedly.

Ignoring the curious glances from all the inmates who had witnessed her spectacle, Carol breezed through the room, her head held confidently high. She approached Badison first. “Did you get the new delivery?” she motioned for Badison to step aside so they could talk in the cell.

“CO’s been watching me like a fahkin’ hawk,” she drawled. “I sent someone else to get it.”

Carol pinched the bridge of her nose. “Didn’t I tell you to just sit tight while I was away?” She shook her head at the young woman’s ignorance. “Is she trustworthy?”

“Pretty noble story,” she laughed. “Single mom just wants to make a buck to help out her poor daughter. Why ya so upset? A good leader delegates,” she smirked.

“Yeah. I fuckin’ delegate, because I’m the fuckin’ leader,” growled Carol.

Badison looked up as Marilyn stepped into the cell, pulling a tightly packed baggie out from under her uniform and pressing it into Badison’s hands.

Carol’s face paled as her eyes landed on the woman. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

 


	6. The Convict

“Get the fuck out,” growled Carol with slits for eyes. Badison quickly ducked out of the cell.

Marilyn sighed. “I’m sorry, Carol, but I wouldn’t have done it if I had realized you were-”

Carol shook her head. “It’s not your fault. She didn’t do what I told her to.”

 

“Pity. I take it you’re feeling better,” she said conversationally.

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” she shrugged. “I’m glad you’re better, is all.” Carol’s face tightened as she listened to the sympathy. There was something different about it, nonchalant and genuine at the same time, a far cry from the performances some of her followers would put on to gain her trust. Somehow, the knowledge that it was valid made her hate it even more.

“Shouldn’t have gotten sick in the first place,” she muttered. Marilyn took careful observation of her use of the word ‘sick’ to describe the events that had occured. “But now I’m back, and we can get back to business.”

“I assume I won’t be picking up the stash again,” said Marilyn. “Shame.”

“Shame? Oh, you mean because of the daughter you never told me about?”

“It never came up. Besides, this is prison. People use that shit against you,” nodded Marilyn.

“I guess,” said Carol. Ambivalent as she was towards Marilyn, she could agree with that.

Marilyn took a deep breath. “I don’t suppose… there’s any way I could keep doing this? Picking up the new delivery?” She interrupted Carol as she started to protest. “Look, I’ll stay out of your way and you can stay out of mine. Please. I just - I really need this money.”

Carol regarded the tall woman, nodding slowly. “You look unsuspectable. Plain. And you’re not known as one of my crew, which is a plus.”

Marilyn gave a small, tentative smile. “So that’s a yes?”

Carol looked stern. “That’s a maybe. Try not to fuck it up.”

———-

Desperation drives one to new frontiers.

Marilyn prided herself on being cautious, wise. Never the first to win the race, but always the one who ran it in the best possible method. She didn’t care for drama, much preferring to keep the peace and do her time with her head down. Those who were scattered inside sought more external chaos. But that wasn’t who Marilyn was. She considered her calm center to be a saving grace.

Participating in criminal activity in prison was a line she had vowed never to cross. The risk wasn’t worth it, she had told herself… until it was. Her daughter needed a bright future - a better one than Marilyn had. Sighing, she sat down, and ran through her list of other options.

There weren’t any.

She could hardly believe herself when she had asked Carol if she could continue running her drug-themed errands. Marilyn had come to terms lately with the fact that yes, if she wanted to provide for her child, she would have to cross some of her own boundaries. But she always pictured it to be a huge struggle when the time came. A daunting conversation, unsure, hesitant, as she betrayed herself.

But she had never expected this: the words rolling easily off her tongue, firmly resolute that this was the best option.

Philosopher Michel de Montaigne once wrote: “He who fears he shall suffer, already suffers what he fears.”

Marilyn feared becoming a criminal. Her felony charge and five year sentence were irrelevant in her mind; for she didn’t think like a criminal. She considered herself to be prudent, self-regulatory; of sound mind and logic. That, she had decided, was where the true boundary between offender and civilian lay. The actions performed were unrelated to the matter: she had committed hers for vastly complicated reasons, justifications only a proud, functioning member of society could think up. It was the reasoning, the thinking, that created the distinction.

No human fears the unknown as a whole. It is too vast, too wide beyond perception to create anxiety around it. It is accepted just as the sun rises in the east and the sky is blue - an inescapable, inconsequential part of life.

It is the fantasy, the zeroing in on one specific, terrifying, but yet to be experienced outcome, that we fear. The imagination is the villain; the unknown, its tool.

And imagination requires familiarity - a starting point to leap from.

Marilyn could justify and vindicate herself all she liked, but she too had a truth she was running from. Her familiarity with the criminal kind didn’t arise from her environment.

It came from within.

——

Marilyn picked nervously at her breakfast, her appetite mysteriously absent. As the guards changed posts, Carol gave her a sharp nod. She swallowed, her mouth dry, and shakily rose to her feet.

The first time she had picked up the stash for Badison, her anxiety wasn’t nearly to this level. It was merely a favor, a task that had to be completed in order to avoid drama. But somehow, now that Carol was involved, the tension reached a new level. But it wasn’t the time for Marilyn to contemplate the woman’s effect on her.

Feeling as if all eyes were on her, she shuffled out of the common area, walking quickly through the hallways, but cautiously enough to not arouse suspicion. With a trembling hand, she reached for the doorknob and slipped inside.

Marilyn squinted in the dim light, working a fingernail into the seam of the loose tile. It lifted easily, revealing a tightly-packed plastic bag underneath. She pulled it free.

The door swung open, and she jumped, hurriedly stuffing the bag under her uniform. “Inmate!” she looked up into the stern face of CO Hopper. “What do you have there?”  
  


“Nothing,” she shrugged. “I-I was nervous. Needed a quiet place to catch a few breaths.”  
  


“Lift up your shirt.” She held her breath and complied, closing her eyes as she revealed the contraband. Hopper was shocked, and quickly snatched the bag away. “What the hell? Who are you bringing this in for?”

“No one,” mumbled Marilyn.

“Last chance, inmate. Who is this for?”

Marilyn froze. She couldn’t talk. She couldn’t move. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears, the auditory companion to the river of adrenaline washing over her. Hopper stared at her expectantly. And before she could think through the possible consequences, she opened her mouth and began to speak.

“Badison Murphy.”


	7. The Pull

Marilyn pressed her face into her pillow in a futile attempt to block out the constant irritating lights and at long last get some sleep. Solitary confinement had a horrible reputation and she had been careful to avoid it from day one of her prison sentence. **  
**

That was the problem, wasn’t it? Marilyn had stopped being careful.

 

Years of meticulously planning every move, every interaction with anyone inside of the cement walls and razor wire buildings that were homes, and she had thrown it all away. Why? For her daughter? There are other ways she can pay for college, Marilyn chided herself. And now she had separated the pair of them further; she fully expected to receive more time on her sentence.  

Her analytic brain, useful as it was, was also her downfall. Sure, it made it easy to weasel and lie, talk her way out of trouble, but it also made it exceptionally easy to lie to herself. With enough logic and vindication, she could justify doing just about anything.

And that was a slippery slope.

She also had the intellectual capacity to know the truth. The real truth, not the one she so expertly buried. It hid there, in the back of her mind. Silently waiting, for it required no acknowledgement or agreement to be correct. It didn’t judge, it didn’t bother, but she could feel it there. The proper explanation for her actions.

Carol.

Marilyn was stuck in cognitive dissonance, stretched between two truths. She was, of course, still horrified at what Carol had become. Decades of living in survival mode had blurred the lines between true self and persona. She was an enigma, a science experiment that had been locked away in a cold, dark drawer for years and years, allowing her to evolve and mutate into something unrecognizable.

And yet she was the same person, the same woman she had shared secret whispers at night and happy notes during the day with. Her Carol. Her first love. Was she still there under the malignant facade?

She lifted her face from the pillow as she heard the chunking sound of her door being unlocked. Squinting as she adjusted once more to the bright lights, she looked over her shoulder to see the ginger guard push the heavy door open. “Five minutes,” she called over her shoulder.

Marilyn sat up with a jolt as Carol entered the cell, a stern expression frozen over her features. The lock clunked shut behind her. Fear clenched Marilyn’s body as the woman drew closer. She knew why Carol had come. It was time for revenge.

“Please, Carol, I-”

“Shut it,” she commanded, folding her arms and leaning casually against the wall. A smirk stretched across her face, her eyes narrowing as she regarded her prey. “Why’d you tell them it was Badison?”

“Because- Because I didn’t want to tell them it was you.” whispered Marilyn, head bowed.

“So you ratted out Badison instead?” Carol raised an eyebrow.

“They would have given me more time,” she said quietly.

“And just what do you think is going to happen to Badison?”

“I know, I know.” She stared at the floor. “Just get it over with,” she squeaked, barely audible.

“Get what over with?”

“What you’re here to do. Punish me for being a rat.”

“I’m not here to do anything,” said Carol.

“So why…” Marilyn trailed off.

“I don’t know. But I felt like I should come see you,” she replied archly.

Marilyn looked confused. “But… I ratted someone out.”

“And that’ll be her problem to fix. Besides. You kinda did me a favor.”

“What?” exclaimed Marilyn.

“Hiring you when I was in Ad-Seg. Running things even though I told her not to. She needed to be put back in her place,” nodded Carol, satisfied with this chain of events.

“I still don’t understand why you came here. I mean, how much does it cost to pay off a guard like that?”

“Well,” said Carol slowly, “I wanted to tell you something else. They’re not giving you any more time.”

“Are you serious?” Marilyn’s eyes went wide. She shook her head. “Shit,” she muttered. “That’s even worse.”

“How is that worse?” Carol knit her eyebrows.

Marilyn gestured frantically. “And what do you think Badison is going to do to me now? She got more time and I get let off the hook?”

“Hey.” Carol leaned in. “I won’t let her touch you.” She gave a sharp nod of resolution, then turned and gave two sharp raps on the door.

Combing her fingers through her hair absentmindedly, Marilyn closed her eyes, contemplating the sudden turn of events. Carol was protecting her. A strong sense of wondering rushed through her. Could that mean-?

No, she thought. That’s silly. Carol had made it perfectly clear that while they were forced to tolerate each other’s presence, they would stay out of each other’s way. And here she was, offering to defend Marilyn from the consequences of breaking a rule nearly every prisoner held.

Dissonant. She turned the word over and over in her mind. There were two opposing components of her and Carol’s relationship - their ambivalence they extended to the other, the acknowledgement that whatever they once had was long dormant, permanently dead. And yet they were drawn to each other. Carol had said it herself - “I felt like I should see you.” There was a magnetic pull, just weak enough to be ignored, but strong enough to influence the pair of them.

Knowing nothing productive would come out of spinning on her and Carol’s conversation, Marilyn stretched out on the bed once more, and fell into fitful sleep.


End file.
